by Paul Hina
Double Play
Paul Hina
Copyright ©2014 by Paul Hina
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Double Play
One
He reaches over onto the nightstand, grabs his ringing alarm clock, and looks at it through sleepy eyes. It rings again. He sits up, stares at the clock face. It's not the clock that's ringing—too early. It's his phone.
He pushes his way out of the tangled sheets of bed and moves toward the phone on the other side of the room. He's falling more than walking, limping more with every step.
"Yeah?" he says into the phone, rubbing the ball of him palm into his eye.
"Clay?"
"That's me."
"Did I wake you?"
"Who is this?"
"It's Wayne. Wayne Parker. Sorry if I woke you. I guess I thought—"
"Don't worry about it, Wayne. I'm up now."
"I was hoping we could get together."
"Sure, when?"
"Now."
"That important, huh?"
"Yeah, it feels pretty urgent."
"So, this isn't a social call."
"No, there's something I need you to look into for me."
"I can be at the ballpark in about half an hour," Clay says, looking over at his clock again.
"The ballpark?"
"That's what I said."
"Sounds fine. I'll see you—"
Clay sits the phone down while Wayne is still talking and limps back to the edge of his bed. He sits down, leans back, and places his hand on her side of the bed. She's gone again. He wonders what time she left this time. She always seems to escape before he's up, and she does it without ever disturbing him. Just imagining her sneaking out of his bed this morning makes him smile. She's a strange, wonderful woman.
He stares up at the ceiling and massages his left thigh with both hands. He leans over on one hip and grabs a pack of cigarettes from his nightstand. It's empty. Good thing too. It's been two weeks since he's had one, and if the pack had anything left in it, he would've smoked it. Just feels like one of those mornings. He squeezes the pack into a ball and throws it at the trash can, misses it off the lip of the can. A glass on the nightstand still has a swallow of booze at the bottom. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of it. Must've been a rough night last night if he left something at the bottom of a glass. He grabs it, runs the juice down his throat. When he leans down to set the glass on the floor, he winces. He grabs his thigh and starts rubbing at it again. Then he stands, tries to put some weight on the leg—gingerly at first. His face is tight as he increases the weight he puts on it. He's anticipating pain, but it's not too bad this morning. Maybe jumping up and running to the phone gave his muscles the jolt they needed.
Wearing only his shorts and undershirt, Clay limps into the bathroom. He hits the light, then squints at the naked bulb on the ceiling as if he were mad at it for being bright. He leans over the sink, resting his hands on the edges, and stares at his face in the mirror. His eyes are still thick and red from sleep. His face looks tired, and makes him appear ten years older than his thirty-four years. A shave might help to clear up the clutter, but he'll have to skip it this morning. No time.
He turns the water up high and lets it gather in the basin before he dips his hands in it. He rushes the cool stuff over his face and combs his wet fingers through his hair. Now, the mirror shows a slightly wetter man who's still tired and aging beyond his years.
The alarm starts to ring.
"Alright, I'm up!" he yells. He grabs a towel from the floor by his feet, drapes it over his head and rubs at his face. Then he throws the towel at the ringing clock. The towel knocks the alarm quiet. He smiles.
"Hot damn, Clay. Nice throw," he says.
"What in the hell would Wayne Parker want from me?" Clay asks himself as he grabs his jacket and tie from the chair by the door. He looks at the tie for a moment, and then throws it back over the chair.
Wayne is a local attorney. He and Clay know each other a bit, casually. They see each other at ball games from time to time, or might run into each other at Eddie's Bar after a game, but Clay's never thought of Wayne as someone who surrounded himself with trouble. In fact, he's always seemed pretty unremarkable to Clay. And since Wayne's unmarried, Clay's normal bread and butter case—catching cheating spouses—is off the table.
Clay walks out the front door of his upstairs apartment still wrestling his jacket over his shoulders. He's a private detective by default. It's not the work he would've chosen to do, but circumstances have a way of pushing people into unplanned corners.
He started out as a ballplayer, and he was a damn good one too. Even made it to the bigs briefly at the end of the 1941 season, before the war. He still thinks of himself as more of a ballplayer than a detective. It's been three years since he's played professionally, but he still can't shake the identification. He wonders if he'll ever feel more like a detective than a ballplayer. Probably not.
He opens the passenger door of his '46 Fleetmaster, leans in, grabs a baseball from a floorboard covered with baseballs, and shuts the heavy door. It's a nice July morning, still cool before the heat has had a chance to descend over the valley. It's a good morning for a walk. And, since he lives less than a mile from the ballpark, he walks there just about every morning to have a stroll around the field, and to kick at the perfect morning grass before Gus the groundskeeper has his way with the place.
On the way to the park, Clay tosses the ball up and down, thinks more about Wayne, and wonders what's coming his way. There's no question that he needs some work. It's been over a week since his last call, and he doesn't have a single open case to work right now. He closed his only remaining case last Friday. So, he's in no position to be picky. Of course, he has no intention of letting Wayne know that.
As he approaches the ballpark, he can see Wayne standing outside the box office talking to Maggie. Maggie runs the park, and has ben running it since her dad passed away a couple years ago.
"Wayne! Heads up!" Clay shouts as he throws the baseball to Wayne.
Wayne reaches up to catch the ball, but drops it as soon as it hits his hands.
"That's hard."
"Right, it's a baseball," Clay says, picking up the ball as it rolls back in his direction.
"No, I know what it is, but I'm usually wearing a mitt when I catch a baseball."
"Nah. Soft hands, Wayne. That's all you need."
"Didn't you know that's how Clay got his nickname?" Maggie says to Wayne.
"What's your nickname?"
"Clay."
"I didn't know that Clay was a nickname." Wayne says.
"It doesn't feel like one. That's what people have been calling me for almost twenty years."
"How'd you get it?"
"My high school shortstop started calling me Clay because I used to field double play balls barehanded. He used to say I had hands of clay, and the name stuck."
"I always thought Clay Hart sounded like a peculiar name."
"No, it's just right. His heart is as soft as his hands," Maggie says as she leans in to kiss Clay.
"Yeah, I'm as soft as can be," he says with a crooked half-smile.
"Not today," Maggie says, rubbing his cheek. "You need a shave."
"Didn't have time this morning."
"So, what's your real name?" Wayne asks.
"Ernest, but I went by Ernie before I was Clay."
"Does anybody still call you Ernie?"
"Not if they want me to answer they don't," Clay says, and then turns to Maggie. "You mind if we go in and stomp on the grass for a bit?"
"No, just mind the lines. You know how Gus gets." Maggie says, referring to the groundskeeper.
"He'll get over it," Clay says.
Wayne follows Clay through the box office doors, across Maggie's office, and into the Braves' clubhouse. When they move out to the dugout, Clay walks up the two concrete steps and stares out at the field.
"I've never seen this place empty before," Wayne says.
"It's something, isn't it? I try to come here every morning of ball season. Even when the Braves are on a road trip, I'm out here every morning walking the grass."
"Do you miss it?"
"Playing?"
"Yeah."
"Sure I do. Everyday," Clay says, throwing the ball up in the air. Catching it. Grasping tightly at its skin.
"You were quite a hitter as I remember it."
"Still am too. Just can't run."
"Yeah, it's too bad about your—"
"What'd you want to see me about Wayne?"
"Straight to business, eh?"
"That's what we're here for, right?"
"Right. I wanted to see you about Brett and
